The Village Hidden Amid the Morning Mist

When Aiko woke up, the dim gray light of dawn was just starting to peek through the darkness. She stepped out onto the porch and breathed in the fresh, pine-scented air as her wooden sandals clattered quietly against the tatami mat. The mist had already descended, thick and white like the breath of the sleeping mountains. This is how it always happened in the spring: the forest was covered, the entire world was engulfed, but for the settlement, which was left undisturbed.

The bamboo pulley of the well creaked softly in the silence as Aiko moved approached it, pulling her shawl snugly around her shoulders. There was silence throughout the village. The only sounds were the distant waterfall singing its ceaseless symphony from beyond the rice paddies and the quiet tweeting of morning birds in the canopy above.

The village where she lived, Tsukimura, was so old that it was supposedly never shown on a map. The elders said that when the last great conflict tore through the kingdoms below, the gods themselves concealed it from the world. Tsukimura, shielded by a mystical fog, was unaffected for

Its inhabitants have been happy to coexist with the forest, river, and sky for millennia.

As a child, Aiko gave the legends little thought. Her life was straightforward: she would get up early, assist her grandmother in making rice cakes for the offerings at the shrine, take care of the herb garden, and listen to the wind whispering in the cedar trees. However, she sensed a change as she took water from the well that morning.

There was more mist.

It stuck to her skin like if she were breathing on glass. As she bent closer to pour the water into her bucket, she initially heard nothing, but then a sound disturbed the stillness.

Not children's joyous scampering, nor the slow, deliberate movements of a peasant on their way to prayer. These were the halting, rushed steps of a person who was not familiar with Tsukimura's stone walkways.

Aiko gasped in surprise.

Something or someone was emerging from the fog.

Holding the wooden bucket to her chest, she retreated into the well's shelter's darkness. The sound of footsteps increased. Faintly, like a candle flame flickering in the fog, a figure appeared. The boy, who was no older than she, was wearing odd clothing, including muddy boots, a black jacket with zippers, and rough canvas pants.

He halted a few steps away from her, gasping for air and staring in shock.

His voice was raspy as he said, "Where... where am I?"

Aiko remained silent. She was paralyzed in wonder, not terror. The village had never been visited by outsiders. It was prohibited. There was no way. But here he was, looking as perplexed as she was.

"You are not supposed to be here," she muttered.

"I did not mean to," he blurted out. "I was trekking," I said. The fog then arrived. I became disoriented, and and I am here now.

"You entered the fog?"

He gave a nod.

Aiko took a deep breath. If they were not born of the mist, nobody ever came back. Those were the elders' words. That the mist decided who was let in and who wasn't.

But he was here.

"Please tell me your name," she said.

"Kazuo," he answered. "How about yours?"

Silently, they stood with mist encircling them like inquisitive fingers. Then another sound—the steady, low beat of a drum—came from the trees' shadows.

Aiko tensed. The guards of the village. The guardians of the shrine. They would be aware.

She took hold of Kazuo's arm. Join me.

He did not think twice. Together, they moved through bamboo groves, past the shrine gate, through the growing fog, and down a side path that no one ever took in the morning, all the way to the river.

They arrived at the old cottage that her grandma had left behind following the landslide years prior. Moss covered the stone steps, and its roof drooped. However, it was concealed and dry.

In an attempt to slow her pounding heart, Aiko lit a lamp and set him down on a straw mat.

"You have to go," she stated forcefully. If the mist drew you in, it might drew you out. However, not if they discover you.

"Who are 'they'?" Kazuo inquired.

"The guardians of the village." They will help you forget, but they will not harm you.

You will not remember this place when you wake up on the mountain. They do just that.

Kazuo, obviously overwhelmed, leaned back. "I believed I was having a dream. The entire village does not seem real. It seems to be from an other era.

Slowly, Aiko nodded. Here, not much changes. The external environment shifted. We remained.

Kazuo gave her a quick glance while wearing a gentle expression. "So why assist me? Why do not you tell the others?

She paused. Then she revealed the reality.

"Because I do not believe you were accidentally brought here by the mist."

The days that ensued were peculiar.

Kazuo was concealed in the ancient cottage by Aiko. She brought him literature from the temple's peaceful library, nourishment, and clean clothes. And as if observing, the mist hung over each dawn for longer than it ought to have. Like they are waiting.

Kazuo described to her the outer world: endless conflicts, unattainable dreams, bright rectangles that contained more knowledge than a thousand scrolls, trains that sped beneath cities. Aiko taught him how to listen to the forest in exchange, teaching him to recognize the sounds of birdsong and the wind rustling through cedar boughs. She showed him the local customs, such as painting prayer flags, creating spirit dolls for the river, and quiet dances under the moonlight.

The silence between them gradually warmed up.

He posed the question she had been dreading on the fifth morning.

"What makes this location hidden?"

Even though the sun had risen, the mist stubbornly clung to the mountains as Aiko gazed out at them. "Because the world was too painful." When conflict broke out long ago, the locals prayed to the gods to conceal them. The gods did, too. To keep us safe, they gave us the mist. But there is a price for protection.

"How much does it cost?"

She looked him in the eye. "We can not go."

His expression dropped.

"No one?" he inquired.

"No one," she uttered. "The mist confuses us if we try." We become lost. We come back without realizing we departed.

He remained silent for a while. And then he said softly, “Then what happens to me?

"I am not sure," she said. But you came here because of the mist. Perhaps... perhaps it desires something.

Kazuo softly took her hand. "Perhaps it wants you to accompany me."

Her heart hurt. It had never occurred to her to leave the village. I never thought there would be roads outside of these jungles or stars outside of these skies. She questioned whether it was conceivable now that she was with him—this lad who talked of other planets and who treated her as though she were a part of something bigger than the hamlet.

She visited the shrine that evening.

She prayed while kneeling in front of the ancient stone fox, which is supposed to defend the boundary between the visible and invisible realms.

She said, "Great spirit of the mist, why did you bring him here? What would you like me to observe?

A voice was absent. Not a glimmer of light.

However, the mist had cleared when she opened her eyes.

It was replaced with a walkway that led through the curtain, past the trees, and into the outside world.

Silently, Aiko went back to Kazuo's hut. The bulb next to him was still shining when she discovered him asleep, wrapped up behind a wool blanket. She waited till sunrise while sitting next to him.

She told him everything when he woke up.

Hand in hand, they proceeded along the route that the mist had revealed.

They were never seen again in the village. According to the shrine elders, they were carried away by the mist. There were rumors that the gods were upset. Some thought it was fate. However, no one ventured to follow, and that path was never discovered again.

Years went by.

A little girl caring for the herb garden behind the shrine one spring morning discovered an odd object under a cedar tree's roots. In a stone carving, two people are shown holding hands while standing on a mountainside and gazing out at the rising sun.

And underneath it, etched in old runes:

"The mist offers protection. However, it also releases.